


Fly Trap

by cmlanning



Category: Original Work
Genre: Fantasy, Gen, Prison, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-29 03:37:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18770395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cmlanning/pseuds/cmlanning
Summary: A prisoner sick of the food he's served makes plans to escape one night. He's warned by another prisoner who failed to escape that he too will not succeed. Turns out, his biggest threat isn't dogs or guards. It's a mysterious restaurant run by a darn good cook.





	Fly Trap

On the night of July 13, 1992, I was still imprisoned at the Cummins Unit in south Arkansas after burglarizing 12 homes. About half way through my 15-year sentence, I decided I’d had enough. There’s only so much a man can take, after all.

Growing weary of the schedules, the orders, the bars, the smell, and the other prisoners, I decided I’d try my luck escaping. I’d already been denied parole twice, and I had no intention of staying in the prison for seven more years. 

I couldn’t even get into a work detail cleaning up garbage along the highway. I’d watched the light die in many mens’ eyes, the glitter of their soul dimming by the day surrounded by white cinder blocks and metal bars over every hole in the wall. 

When we got a little time outside, our views were obscured by the fences and razorwire. It’s not like there was anything interesting to look at outside the prison, just flat fields and farmland. 

Of course, my desire to see that farm land, run through it, feel its dirt in my sweaty hands without guards holding guns all around, it just continued to grow. 

But the number one deciding factor in my choice to escape came down to food. Food’s important in a prison because it’s either the keeper of peace or cause of riots. 

Food is typically one of the only things we can look forward to in a day. Breakfast consists of half a cup of mixed fruit, one cup of cereal in some one-percent reduced fat milk, three servings of margarine, one biscuit in a smothering of what they call “country gravy,” and a little fruit juice or coffee to wash it all down with. It’s nothing like food on the outside, but as the quality of meals degrades, your appreciation for the little things grows. 

That biscuit might taste like old newspaper run through dog scrotum, but it’s something to put the margarine on and smother in white stuff they call gravy. 

Lunch is typically two baloney sandwiches and a tiny bag of corn chips. I mean, so small they don’t even sell it at convenience stores, at least, not that I remember. But I’m told things on the outside are getting smaller, televisions, phones, so who knows? Maybe food is too. 

And dinner, my favorite meal of the day, well that can be a couple different things. My favorite meal was two pieces of cornbread, margarine, a cup of beans, some kind of mystery meat mixed in with fried rice, red vitamin juice, and this weird frosted cake. It was only half as good as the stuff my pops used to deliver for Hostess, but that cake would keep the light in my soul going a bit longer. 

“Cake tonight,” I remembered a guard named George I was friendly with telling me about two or three in the afternoon. 

Those blessed words came along maybe once every week or two. 

The ultimate peace keeper was fried chicken night. The entire prison would be told a week in advance of chicken night. So long as we behaved, there would be chicken. And it’d be so quiet in those halls, one could hear the jingle of keys on a guard’s belt from 100 yards away. 

Everyone behaved, because if there was so much as a peep of trouble, the warden would make sure there was no chicken for months. 

Mr. Michaels knew what he was doing. He was a hard man, and he was not a foolish man. He’d run the prison for nine years, and if he wanted the job, he’d probably keep it for another decade. 

But one foul Thursday afternoon we got word the food was being cut. The lawmakers in Little Rock had slashed the budget for the Arkansas Department of Correction, and food had taken a heavy hit. 

Our meals were being cut down to two a day, and we’d soon start growing our own vegetables. Meat? Well that’d soon be a thing of rarity. It didn’t take long for behavior to turn rotten. 

We had four riots that month, and seven men died. 

Still, in spite of Mr. Michael’s testimony in Little Rock, we were told the budget cut would remain. Riots continued. My cellmate Roger died with 90 days left on his sentence. He was a quiet man, so that made him my favorite cellmate. He ran the library cart and would give me book recommendations if I asked for them. 

After my third helping of floppy carrots, smelly squash, a few potato patties and water, I knew my time in this prison was coming to an end. 

I can recall visiting with Fred Marrow the afternoon before I planned to escape. We met in the prison yard. He was lifting weights, and I got permission to talk with him after trading his friends a little pouch of instant coffee I was given by George for my last birthday. 

“Hey Fred,” I said ,approaching slowly. The hulking man had a thing about sudden movement ever since he was shot in the leg during his arrest. 

“How goes it, Moze?” he asked, still breathing slowly as he lifted the weights. 

“Pretty poorly. This food stuff is getting to me,” I said. 

“Me too. You know my piss reeks after those brussel sprout things we had the other night,” Fred said. “That’s a problem when where I piss is four feet away from where I lay my head at night. 

“I hear you,” I said. 

“Did you come over here and pay my guys to talk about food, Moze? Seems a high price. You could have found someone to do that for free over on the basketball court or out in the cornfields,” Fred said. 

“No sir. I actually came to talk to you about-” I looked around and lowered my head. “The night you got out of here a few years back.” 

He put down the weights and thought for a moment. Then he looked at me expectantly. I slid him a little cup with my urine slowly with my foot. It was clean, free of drugs for the last 90 days. And one never knew when that might come in handy. 

Fred smirked when he saw it. Then he slid it closer to him. 

The convicted murderer laughed and shook his head. 

“Well?” I asked, careful not to poke the bear too hard. 

He slowly glanced up at me and sat up. 

“I’ve been where you are, ya know? Ready to leave at any cost. This is the worst prison I’ve ever been in. So one night about six years ago, I asked an inmate by the name of Tyreese to tell me about the night he escaped,” Fred said. 

The murderer scratched his hairless scalp.

“What did he tell you?” I asked. 

Fred chuckled and replied, “He told me what I’m about to tell you. That you might escape tonight, but you’ll be right back in your cell tomorrow morning by sunrise.” 

I frowned. 

“I’ve been planning this for a while now, Fred. I mean no disrespect, but I’ve got a truck driver waiting for me up in Reydell. Old buddy of mine from high school. By 7 a.m. tomorrow I’m gonna be in Mexico. I was just looking for some tips about the night you escaped.” 

Fred stood up. At seven feet tall, he overshadowed me pretty easy. My heart skipped a beat as he looked down at me, and I could feel his guys tense up behind me.

_ I may not live to escape,  _ I thought. 

The man leaned over and patted me on the shoulder, laughing a little. I didn’t move a muscle. Some wind blew through the prison yard, whipping my red hair around.  

“Moze, my chum, it doesn’t matter what you’ve planned. You won’t make it to Reydell,” Fred said. 

“Can I ask why you think that?”

“Because the same thing that happened to Tyreese happened to me. And the same thing will happen to you,” he said. 

I threw my arms up in the air. I’d gone over a number of possibilities in my head. Most escapees would probably try to stay close to the Highway 65 in an attempt to not get lost. But I would be heading straight north, through fields and between chicken houses. 

It’s about two-and-a-half miles to the Arkansas River. I planned to swim across and emerge on the other side. From there, it was a little over four miles to Reydell where the trucker was set to meet me. 

As sure as I was that overconfidence had killed a number of escape attempts, I felt pretty good with this plan. 

“What happened to you and Tyreese?” I asked, ready to apply a grain of salt that it’d happen to me as well. 

Fred flicked a beatle off his orange shirt and looked down at me again. 

“Miss Jacy happened. Picture this. You’re running full speed ahead, fast as your legs can carry you, trying to put as much distance as possible between you and this place.” 

_ Sounds about right so far,  _ I thought. 

“All of a sudden, you come to a dead stop. There’s some aroma in the air. You know exactly where it’s coming from, and without explanation, you find yourself running in that direction. The smell comes from Miss Jacy’s Cafe. It’s a little restaurant open at all hours in the middle of nowhere. 

I suppose one could resist with a strong enough will, but that wasn’t me. I found myself sitting at a table, and Miss Jacy just started bringing me food. 

Overcome with hunger, I ate until the warden showed up for me the next morning. He drove me back here, and I’ve been mystified ever since,” Fred said. 

Raising an eyebrow, I shook my head. 

“You expect me to believe any of that?” 

With a single glare, Fred let me know he didn’t appreciate me second-guessing him. And I felt my heartbeat quicken for the second time in this conversation. 

“I don’t care what you believe. You could go ask Tyreese, except he died in that last riot along with your cellmate. So go ahead, flee after lights out, Moze. Run until your feet bleed. But I promise you, you’ll be back here the next morning, exactly like I said.” 

And with that, Fred pushed past me and headed toward the basketball court with his guys. I was left there processing everything he’d told me. The guy believed everything he said. What I believed was undetermined after that last look he’d given me. 

Later, during dinner, I tried to eat my third mystery soy sandwich for the day. It didn’t sit well, so I traded it to Jack for his bag of corn chips and returned to my cell hungry. This last meal only reinforced my desire to escape after lights out. 

Thanks to a previous arrangement, George left my cell door a tad loose that evening. Not so loose anyone would notice at first glance. Just loose enough one might open it quietly after the lights went out. And that’s exactly what someone did. 

Then I worked my way quietly out to the exercise yard and over to a section of the perimeter fence I’d been told had a little give at the bottom, maybe even enough for a man to crawl under were he careful and persistent enough. 

Half an hour later, I was standing a quarter mile beyond the prison parking lot. It was a warm southern Arkansas night. Sweat ran down my brow, and mosquitos buzzed near my right ear, but I didn’t care. For the first time in about eight years, I was breathing free air. And this air wasn’t given to me by a parole board or the governor. No. . . I’d earned it myself. 

Earning it might have been a little easier than I’d imagined, but I certainly wasn’t going to complain. 

I ran my right fingers over brown grass, long dead and baked by the summer sun. Cracked earth released dust as I did this. 

A beatle scurried over my hand, and instead of flicking him away, I just let him run his course, and soon enough he was back in the dirt. 

With glee in my bones, I was feeling somewhat merciful and energized. 

This time tomorrow night, I’d be eating barbacoa and drinking that sweet Coca-Cola with the real sugar they sold south of the border. 

Standing back up, I looked around. It was quiet except for a little fox that crossed my path. She stared at me underneath the full moon, sneezed, and then took off into the night again. Above my head, I caught glimpse of a shooting star out of the corner of my eye. 

_ I’ll take that as a good omen,  _ I thought. 

And then I was off. 

Funny, in school I was never good at math. I hated dealing with numbers, unless the teacher could make it relevant to me. How much money would I get from an allowance in a month’s time if I saved up? How long would it last me at the arcade? In these instances, I’d do well. 

Solving for x? Screw x. I had enough problems to solve in my life without worrying about his or y’s or z’s problems. 

Tonight I knew the Arkansas River was more than two miles from where I ran now. Running at an average pace of one mile every ten minutes, I’d be at the river in less than half an hour. 

_ Not having seen that river before, I can’t imagine how long it’ll take me to swim across. I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I get there,  _ I thought. 

And then I paused for a moment and laughed. 

“There won’t be a bridge when I get there,” I said. 

The terrible joke had left a dumb smile on my face. Freedom sure didn’t take long to make me stupid and giddy. 

Still, I couldn’t slack off now. I had a truck driver to meet, and my window wasn’t that large. 

The first mile wasn’t so bad. About half way through the second mile, I tripped over a rock and banged my knee into the hard ground. 

Cursing, I slowly rolled over and got back up. Running was going to be more difficult now with this pain in my knee. It wasn’t like I could stop and knock on the farmhouse door over there to the west and ask for Aspirin. 

Eventually I made it to the murky water of the Arkansas River. There was a shallow grove of trees I passed through, barely missing a hornet’s nest. I thanked my lucky star from earlier I didn’t bump it. 

When I emerged, there was a small flat patch of grass that hadn’t been killed by the summer sun and some smaller trees along the river bank, almost making a little fence for the southern shore. 

Walking over, I stepped onto a tiny patch of sand and looked at the water. I guessed it was probably a little less than 1,000 feet across, and sure enough, there was no bridge. Back in Cummins, I’d heard tales of catfish that sat at the bottom of the river eating trash and eventually growing large enough to swallow a grown man whole. But I believed these tales even less than what Fred had told me earlier. 

Sighing, I waded out into the water. 

_ Gotta go, gotta go,  _ I kept thinking. 

The water was cool, and it didn’t take me long to get to a deep part where my feet couldn’t touch the bottom anymore. And I started my swim. 

Once or twice I saw snakes, so I swung wide around them. They left me alone. 

I panicked when I nearly bumped into a turtle of some kind, but he paid me even less mind than the snakes. I’d worried he was a snapper and would bite my nose off, as I’d heard from inmates they had the jaw strength to do. 

About half-way across I grew tired, so I flipped over and leisurely did the backstroke to finish my route. All in all it took me the better part of 20 or 30 minutes to get across. I got real sluggish toward the end. 

At last I came upon a larger sandy shore on the north riverbank, and here I collapsed to catch my breath. 

My arms and legs were shaking, and I didn’t realize how tiring such a long swim could be. I hadn’t swam in the better part of a decade, after all. 

Eventually, I got my bearings and stood up. 

_ Catfish zero, me one,  _ I thought, smirking. 

I didn’t feel a sense of confidence in my legs that said they’d carry me another four miles north to Reydell. But before I could convince them otherwise, there it was. 

A numbness came over my head, like I’d stood up too fast, and my nose detected the smell of fried chicken. In my mind I could actually see it. Cripsy, crunch, golden, juicy fried chicken, just pulled out of the fryer. 

My stomach grumbled, and I fell back to my knees. 

I thought my brain would deride me for not eating that extra sandwich when I needed all the protein I could get for my journey. But instead, it just kept picturing that chicken. My arms didn’t have the strength to reach up and wipe a little bit of drool forming on the right corner of my lips. 

This time when my stomach grumbled, I wasn’t just hungry. I was ravenous. Holy Hell, I was going to die unless I ate something. But not just any something. Only one something. That flawless fried chicken waiting for me over yonder. 

_ Over yonder? Who talks like that? I guess hungry men _ , I thought. 

But then my eyes focussed on a light source in the distance. Maybe distance was too dramatic a word. It wasn’t all that distant. Maybe a football field away? 

_ Am I thinking right, or has all this sudden hunger got my head fogged up?  _ I asked myself. But before I could answer, I got another whiff of fried chicken, and I nearly felt myself floating off the ground over in the direction of the light. 

The light came from a building on the water’s edge. It had a waterwheel, a little patio over the river and several windows. Looking inside I could see tables and booths. 

_ A restaurant?  _ I guessed. 

It looked empty, but there was a neon blue and red light that hung in the window. The word “open” was lit up. Normally, my brain would have found it strange there was no sign outside listing this restaurant’s name, but all I could think about was fried chicken. 

Ordinary, my brain probably would have told me I had four miles to run and a trucker to meet for my escape. But again, I could think about … was fried chicken. 

I didn’t even try to rationalize my hunger like, “Well clearly I can’t run on an empty stomach” or “I can run four miles in less than an hour. Stopping for dinner won’t be an issue.” Instead, I just felt my legs carrying me over to the restaurant. 

By the time I became conscious of what was happening, I’d just opened the front door and heard a little bell jingle above me. It rattled me into a semi-aware state. Enough to know I couldn’t really recall walking over here but not enough to keep my legs from carrying me over to a little stand with a tiny chalkboard on it. The little board displayed the message, “Please wait to be seated.” 

And rather than leave to continue on my urgent journey, I stood there as though in a stupor, waiting to be seated and praying I could sample some of that chicken I’d smelled. 

A Dolly Parton-looking woman wearing an apron over a stained blue dress walked over. Her teeth were white, but her blonde hair was disheveled like she’d be working in the kitchen for hours. 

“Boy, you come into my restaurant smelling like river? That just won’t do,” she said. 

Before I could even blink and look down, I felt a rush of air about me. And when I finally did look down, I was wearing clean jeans and a black t-shirt. 

“Um,” was all I could mutter, still in my hungry stupor. 

“Booth or bar?” she asked. 

As my brain struggled to put together words and logic, I finally managed to choke out, “I don’t have any money.” 

“That wasn’t what I asked, sugar. Where would you like to sit?” she asked. 

I blinked a few more times, probably wearing a stupid expression. But she waited patiently, smiling the whole time. 

“Bar,” I said. 

“Well come on then, dear.” 

She walked over to the bar ahead of me, and I sat down in a swivel red chair that sparkled under fluorescent light. 

“What can I get you to drink?” she asked. 

_ Jesus. How long has it been since I’ve had anyone ask me this question? How long has it been since my options were anything other than black coffee or mysterious fruit juice?  _ I thought. 

“Um. . . beer?” I asked, like a moron feeling for options. 

“Coming right up,” she said and walked away. 

I looked around at the empty restaurant. Some pictures of famous singers hung on the wall. I recognized Johnny Cash and Elvis. Both were signed. 

The walls were adorned with little trophies and ribbons I assume were from local cooking contests or county fairs. Overall, the place had a pretty warm environment. A little jukebox sat in the corner with red and blue neon lights wrapped around it. 

The lady came back with a bottle of beer, the cap already screwed off and a little bit of cold mist rising from inside the bottle. There was a purple sticker wrapped around the bottle, and the label read “Diamond River.” 

_ Huh, must be one of those local microbrews or something,  _ I thought, taking a drink. 

I looked at the bottle with amazement and took another drink, this one twice as long. 

“I’m gonna need another bottle of this please,” I said, smiling at the first alcohol I’d had in years that didn’t rhyme with “boil it vine.” 

“Sure thing. Which would you like to start with? I’ve just pulled fried chicken out of the fryer, and I’ve got a chicken pot pie that’ll be out of the oven in 45 seconds,” she said. 

I looked at her thoroughly torn. All I’d thought of for the last 10 minutes was that fried chicken, but I hadn’t had chicken pot pie since I was a boy, and my dad made it for me. 

She seemed to sense my stress and said, “Oh don’t worry, sugar. Whatever you choose is just what you’ll have first. You can have the other thing afterward.” 

I let out a sigh of relief because I really did want both. 

“Let’s go with the chicken pot pie first then please,” I said. 

And she nodded, heading back into the kitchen. 

She returned with a small round casserole dish that had the pie inside. She placed it in front of me with one of those cloth napkins and another beer. 

I unrolled the napkin and smelled the flaky crust in front of me. I swear my brain skipped a thought or two at the joy. I remembered dad pulling one of these out of the oven when I’d come in from riding my bike after school. 

“You heard me say I don’t have any money, right?” I asked. 

“I don’t care about that,” she said and went back into the kitchen. 

I found a knife in the cloth napkin and cut me out a piece of that chicken pot pie. More steam came out as I put the piece on my fork. I saw peas, carrots, mushrooms and chicken inside the crust and took that bite. 

Normally I’m not a crying man. I cried when I got the letter that my mom had died not long after I’d arrived at Cummins, and I cried here. This tasted better than anything I’d ever eaten, and that included before prison when I was a free man. 

This was even better than my dad’s or what I could remember of it. 

“This is fantastic,” I whispered and cut another chunk. 

I demolished the chicken pot pie in five minutes flat, just in time for this goddess of a cook to bring out a plate of golden fried chicken. 

I put the fork down and tore into it as well. Juicy, tender, rich, seasoned for a little kick, the chicken was amazing. 

As I leaned back having put away all that food, I realized I wasn’t stuffed. I mean, I wasn’t hungry like I was when I came in, but I wasn’t full, either. And as much as I ate, I should have put on about five pounds and needed a nap. 

Before I could ponder this, the woman came back with a third beer. She placed it in front of me and asked, “So what can I get you next?”

I stared at her blankly. 

“You’re just going to keep feeding me. . .,” I said, trailing off and waiting for her name. 

“You can just call me Miss Jacy,” she said. “And yeah. I’ve got a kitchen full of stuff. You just tell me what you want, and I’ll make it.” 

“But. . . why?” I asked, looking confused. 

“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “So what do you want next?”

I looked down at the table but found no menu. So I looked back up at Miss Jacy. 

_ Why does that name sound so familiar?  _ I thought. 

Before I could answer that, my mouth spoke for me, “Spaghetti would be good.” 

“Coming right up,” she said. 

Then she was gone. 

I sat there drinking some more of my beer when my eyes fell upon the jukebox again. It’d been ages since I’d heard any music. 

“Miss Jacy? You mind if I use the jukebox?” I hollered. 

“Go ahead, sugar,” she called back from the kitchen. 

So I did. I waltzed over and looked at what was available. The song list had a lot of my favorites from the 70s and 80s. But then I remembered I had no quarters. 

Defeated, I started to head back to my seat when I thought of something. She hadn’t charged me for any food. 

_ I wonder. . . _ , I thought and scanned for a coin slot on the jukebox. There wasn’t one I could see, just the dim flashing red and blue neon lights wrapped around the jukebox. So I punched up J-8 for Toto’s “Hold the Line” and went back to my chair playing the air keyboard like the intro. 

“It’s not in the way that you hold me,” I sang. 

A keyboard had actually been the last thing I stole before the cops showed up. I’d played piano fairly well as a kid and missed having one. I guess stealing one wasn’t the answer, but I was unemployed at the time. I just wanted something to play “Black Magic Woman” on again, like I had from that wrinkled paper piano book I used to check out of the library. 

I went through other hits including “Don’t Do Me Like That” and “Layla” before Miss Jacy brought out a big plate of spaghetti and meatballs. 

“Thank you,” I said. 

“No problem. What do you want next?”

“Next? I think this should do me,” I said, laughing. 

“Oh trust me. You aren’t even half finished,” she said, laughing and flopping her hand forward. 

“I don’t know how much more I’ll be able to eat after this. I didn’t even know I was this hungry,” I said. 

“People here always find room for more. Trust me,” she said, winking. 

I shrugged and continued to slurp up my spaghetti. The parmesan cheese, the savory meatballs, the sweet sauce and the chewy noodles were perfection. I’d never been this happy eating before. Eating this stuff, I almost forgot I’d just come from a prison.

_ A prison?  _ I thought for a few seconds before she asked, “So what next?”

“Tacos please!” I said, and back into the kitchen she went. 

I shoveled more spaghetti into my mouth, and she brought out a plate of extra cheesy garlic bread. 

“Oh you shouldn’t have,” I said, grabbing a piece and feeling it almost melt in my mouth. 

After she brought out the tacos, I told her about how I wanted to be a chef growing up. I’d always loved food, eating it, but also cooking it. 

I’d been thinking about culinary school until my dad got sick, I told her. Everything seemed to go downhill after that when my luck went to the crapper. 

Miss Jacy listened patiently, nodding and mmhmming when appropriate. I actually felt like she cared about my story. 

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” she would say occasionally at points of my life story. 

I continued to eat and stay far from the destination of “full.” And every time I gave pause to ponder my good fortune this evening, she’d ask what I wanted next. 

I went through so many dishes, gumbo and crawdads, chicken and dumplings, two trays of cornbread, chili, waffles, grilled cheese, chicken fried steak and gravy, on and on. I asked. Miss Jacy provided. 

Finally, I could see a little bit of pink light on the horizon. I looked at a clock on the wall that said it was nearly 6 a.m.

Starting to get up, my legs gave out when my eyes saw her carrying a few slices of chocolate cake out of the kitchen. 

“Here ya go, dear. I’ll go fetch you some coffee. Would you like cream and sugar?”

“Yes please,” I said. 

We never got cream and sugar in the prison. 

_ Prison?  _ I thought, before I took my first bite of cake. But that thought flew out of my head as all the previous ones had when I ate Miss Jacy’s food. 

I finished my cake and coffee and at last I heard the bell chime behind me. In through the door came Warden Michaels. 

I should have grabbed the knife on my table and charged him, trying to steal his truck keys. Any normal escapee would have. 

Instead, I just sat there, wiping my mouth. 

“Good morning, warden. Can I get ya some breakfast?” she asked. 

“No thanks. Gotta take this one back. I appreciate it, though,” he said and walked over to me wearing his gray suit, white button down shirt and red tie. 

“You about ready to head back, Moze?” he asked, looking down at me with his smooth brown eyes and thick eyeglasses. 

Again, any normal prisoner would have tripped him and run. But my docile reaction was just to nod, thank Miss Jacy for her cooking and get into his white pickup truck outside. 

All the way back to Cummins, I kept thinking I should grab the wheel and cause an accident. Something to get away. But I didn’t. I just sat there, watching the pasteur go by. 

We drove over to Highway 165, then down through Gillett, Pendleton, across the Arkansas River, up through Gould and Varner and arrived back at the prison. 

“Am I in trouble?” I asked, my mental fog lifting a little as the warden escorted me toward the entrance from the parking lot. 

“I don’t think so,” he said. 

“How did you know where to find me?” I asked. 

“I got the call from Miss Jacy about an hour ago. I always know where to find my prisoners when they go missing,” he said. 

As I got back to my cell, I turned to ask him one more question, the final bits of fog evaporating from my head. 

“Who was that woman?” I asked. 

The warden just adjusted his tie, shut the cell door and smiled. 

“Someone very special that every warden of this prison had made a particular deal with going back decades. You have a nice day, Moze,” the warden said. 

And then he left. 

I kept expecting someone to come throw me in solitary for my escape, but no one ever did. It was like I’d never left in the mind of the guards. George didn’t really say anything about it. 

Fred came over to me out in the yard that afternoon. 

“How was it?” he asked. 

“Fantastic,” I said. 

Then he just smiled and started to walk over to the basketball court. 

“I told you, Moze,” he said. 

I did not try to escape again for the rest of my sentence, and at last after serving 12 years the governor responded to my letter and granted me clemency. 

After I got out, I found work as a cafeteria worker at a vocational college over in Grady. 

The peculiar thing was nobody I asked about Miss Jacy’s Cafe seemed to know anything about it. I drove back out to that spot along the river, and there was nothing. 

I checked business listings, chamber of commerce catalogues, asked every old timer at every greasy spoon along Highway 65 for an hour in both directions. Nothing. 

I wrote to Warden Michaels only to find out he’d retired. The new warden sent back some generic letter wishing me well and giving me phone numbers for recidivism counselors if I needed to talk to someone. 

The rest of my years I searched but never found Miss Jacy’s Cafe. But I have a sneaking suspicion there are still escapees eating there to this day. 


End file.
